Mr. Wanderlei was next on Mariel's list and she was not long in cornering him. She found him that very Saturday as he was painting the wooden railing of his front porch.
Stopping at his mailbox, she gave her bike bell several sharp rings to gain his attention. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her.
"Hello, Mariel," he called, while lifting a paintbrush in salute. "Another few weeks and it will be too cold to do this."
Mariel could think of nothing to reply and so rang her bell once more. Mr. Wanderlei set the brush carefully on the lip of the can and stood, wiping his hands on the old corduroy pants he was wearing. "Is that a new bike?" he asked amiably.
Mariel nodded her big head at this, then thought to add, "My Grandma bought it for me. I didn't steal it."
Wanderlei smiled and answered, "I never would have thought so." He ambled down the steps in her direction.
Mariel fumbled with the necklace and only just managed it bring it out from beneath her top as he drew near. This caused Wanderlei to halt for a moment as he took in Mariel's rather astounding adornment.
"Goodness," he breathed at last. "That's some necklace for a little girl. Where did you get that?" He ran a large knuckled hand across the top of his mostly hairless skull.
As she had done with Salter and Forster, Mariel realigned her bicycle for a quick escape should it prove advisable, one foot poised on a pedal. She remained silent.
Wanderlei fished a handkerchief from his pocket and set about wiping his face and near-naked pate. "Such things cause great temptation," he said finally. "Of course, I know that you're too young to understand what I mean exactly." He glanced up and down the street, then turned his gaze onto her once more.
"Where I work, there are men who have killed for such baubles." A slight frown crossed his face. "Do you know where I work, Mariel?"
In fact, Mariel did know, as one of her uncles had pointed him out to her during a visit between incarcerations. She nodded slightly.
Wanderlei studied her face with interest, then said, "Well, then you know that I've spent my life amongst a lot of very bad people." His eyes had taken on a sparkle that was beginning to make Mariel uneasy. He took another step and she eased her rump upwards in preparation for escape.
"Are you Christian?" he asked gently. "Does your mother ever take you to church?"
Mariel frowned, unable to follow Mr. Wanderlei's drift. Even so, she nodded involuntarily out of nervousness.
"Is that right?" he smiled, completely ignoring her necklace. "Really, what church would that be?"
"We go sometimes," Mariel whispered, for some reason not wanting to lie outright to this man. "We're Cat'lics."
Wanderlei's expression became one of disappointment. "Oh, I see," he murmured. "That would explain the love of gold and baubles," he said quietly, as if Mariel were no longer there.
Mariel rose up and pushed down on the waiting pedal; she had learned what she needed to know here.
Wanderlei looked up as she pulled away, his expression gone a little wistful now. "You and your mother are welcome to attend the services here at our house anytime you want," he called after her. "God accepts anyone who has an open heart. Do you have an open heart, Mariel?"
That night, as Mariel lay awake in her bed, she contemplated her efforts to date at exposing Ripper's murderer and was bitterly disappointed with the results. Though occasionally blessed with flashes of innovative vigor, her intellectual resources had been sorely taxed by the whole affair. She stared blankly out of her curtainless window and thought of almost nothing.
The backyard was bathed in the cold illumination of a full moon that created black-and-white etchings of once-familiar objects. Ripper's empty chain-link pen was captured near center frame of her nocturnal reverie, its gate standing forlornly open, forever awaiting his impossible return. A spill of shadow ran like blood from the doghouse and onto the brilliant concrete pad it rested upon.
Mariel felt her eyelids grow heavy, while above her the ponderous footsteps of her mother measured the distance from her bathroom to her bed. This was followed by a groaning of bedsprings and a loud yawn; then silence descended over the household. Outside, something glided soundlessly from out of a tree, only to vanish within the greater shadows of the forest. Mariel's eyes began to close.
As she was drifting off, she saw something moving stealthily along the darkened tree line that formed the natural boundary of her yard. As she was often a nocturnal traveler herself, this did not, at first, alarm her. Mariel had spent many a night prowling Crumpler Lane and its environs, and had on more than one occasion allowed herself into the homes of their neighbors using emergency keys that they had thought were cleverly hidden within flowerpots and beneath paving stones. In fact, her midnight forays and cool boldness had become something of a neighborhood legend.
This had been several years before, however, shortly after the loud divorce of her parents and the twaining of her family into a Mother-Daughter/Father-Sons arrangement. Mariel had hoped she would discover that her brothers were simply sleeping over at some neighbor's house but never seemed able to catch them at it. When the state's child services were brought in, her mother took drastic action and placed a latch on Mariel's bedroom door.
She watched dreamily as the figure detached itself from the shadows and emerged, glowing, into the moonlight. The man looked familiar, but the bright, ghostly light only served to erase his features. He glided across the littered lawn of her backyard in a direct line with her bedroom window and a small, shrill alarm began to sound in Mariel's head. She struggled to come fully awake and sit up.
The man disappeared from view as he reached the wall of her house and for the first time sound entered into the hushed scene. Mariel heard the scrape of something metal and remembered the rusty ladder that lay beneath her window. She had not needed that ladder since her mother ceased locking her in at night and it had lain, discarded and forgotten, until now, in the rank grasses of her backyard. It was this sound that set her in motion.
Sitting up, fully awake now, she slid noiselessly from her bed and began stuffing her pillows beneath her blankets. Once done, she dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl to the closed bedroom door. It had been some time since her mom had locked her in and she hoped that she had not done so this night.
Behind her a head rose cautiously within the frame of the window. Mariel froze as soon as she saw its elongated shadow begin to crawl up the opposite wall, then, ever so slowly, lowered herself into the welter of dirty clothes and discarded dolls and toys that formed the tangled landscape of her room. She sank from sight within the camouflage of her own environment.
Peering out from beneath a damp towel that she draped over her head, Mariel saw the silhouette swivel slightly, then focus on the lumpy bed revealed in the moonlight. For several moments the scene remained frozen in this attitude. Then the window began to squeak like the tiniest of mice.
Mariel knew that she could call out to her mother and perhaps, if she had not had too much to drink, awaken her to the peril she faced. But this was not part of Mariel's rapidly forming plan.
Instead, she snaked an arm upwards for the doorknob. With any luck she could ease herself out into the hallway as the intruder made his way into her room; then . . . use the latch that she herself had been confined with so many times before. As for the window, she had simply to race around to the back of the house, tip the ladder over, and he was caught like a rat! Then, and only then, she would yell bloody murder! Wouldn't everyone be surprised at what she had accomplished? Mariel began to grin beneath her covering.
She found the doorknob and began to turn it. From behind her came the hiss of clothing sliding over the window sill followed by a soft thump. Things were happening a little faster than she had planned and so she tried to hurry a bit more. She could hear her own breathing as she slithered into the opening she was making.
Then Sailor began to hiss and yowl, only just now deciding that this stranger in his
room was not welcomed. Mariel looked back over her shoulder; she had completely forgotten Sailor.
The cat had been a gift to her mother from a former boyfriend who had worked on a clamming boat, hence the name Sailor. Naturally, he took up with the one member of the household who cared nothing for him—however, Mariel was not above putting him to good use.
Without a word, she sprang to her feet and snatched the fat, orange cat from the nest he had created within her bed coverings. With a screech of protest he was suddenly airborne in the direction of Mariel's would-be assailant, his claws fully extended in a futile attempt at air-braking.
When the two met, it was the nocturnal visitor's turn to vocalize, as he screamed like a woman in labor, whether from pain or terror, Mariel could not know. From above, there was a great concussion as her mother's considerable bulk was set suddenly in motion.
Mariel, consigning Sailor to whatever fate awaited him, flew for the door once more, slamming it behind her and latching it all in one movement. A tight smile appeared on her chubby face as she raced for the back door, even as her name was loudly heralded with her mother's rumbling approach.
Tripping over the uneven doorsill, she spilled clumsily into the silvered yard just in time to see the intruder fling himself from the ladder and begin his headlong flight. She had not been fast enough! Her disappointment rose like bile in her mouth. But even as her mother blocked the moon from view and began to scrabble at Mariel with sweaty, fleshy hands, she noted with some vindication that her enemy had fled in the direction of the cul-de-sac.
The sheriff's K-9 unit tracked the burglar unerringly from Mariel's window to Mr. Salter's backyard, the scent leading them directly into Bruiser's territory. There, the sleepy, overfed dog, alarmed by the night's doings, and mysteriously free of confinement, managed to engage the interlopers in a snarling, slobbering, snapping exchange of canine unpleasantness. In the end, he was reincarcerated, but not before thoroughly spoiling the search. Mariel knew all of this from eavesdropping as the officers briefed her mother in the living room.
When the policemen asked Mariel if she had gotten a good look at the man who had made his way into her room, she studied the dirty knees of her pajamas for several moments as if thinking very carefully, then mumbled, "I think it was Mr. Salter." Though she had never really gotten a good look at her assailant, Salter appealed to both her logic and sense of justice based on both the dogs' tracking and the fact that she liked him the least of anyone in the neighborhood. The officers glanced meaningfully at one another after her pronouncement, then departed to invite Mariel's neighbor to accompany them to the station for further questioning.
After they had left, Mariel had a very difficult time falling to sleep—it had been a very exciting evening. When, at last, she did drift off, it was with the pleasant sense of a job well done, mission accomplished.
As the following day was Sunday and Mariel's night had been a long one, her mother allowed her to sleep in well past noon. When she did awake it was with a ravenous appetite and an equally fierce curiosity about the results of her efforts on the neighborhood at large. It seemed to her that an act of such magnitude would result in seismic changes on Crumpler Lane. So after two heaping bowls of frosted cereal and a glass of chocolate milk, she mounted up and set off to reconnoiter her domain.
The day was bright and fine, but as it was mid autumn, the sun remained low in the sky and a distinct chill could be felt through her inadequate windbreaker. Racing down the lane, she swerved to drive through all leaf piles that awaited pickup, scattering the labor of her adult neighbors with her willful passage. When she arrived at the Salter household she did it twice, and then rolled to a halt one house away to watch for any outrage.
None was forthcoming. The house remained closed and silent. There were no cars in the driveway either, and Mariel imagined Mr. Salter's wife and teenage daughters down at the police station weeping and pleading for his freedom. She felt confident that the cops would pay them no heed and might even arrest them as well, because they were related to him. She smiled at this thought, though she had hoped to be the unmoving object of their pleas herself.
Mariel heard a stealthy footfall behind her and, without sparing a look, began to pedal quickly away.
"Mariel," A voice called to her softly . . . urgently.
After placing a safe distance betwixt herself and the voice, she spun around to see who had called out to her. It was Mr. Forster.
He stood uncertainly by his mailbox, which was entwined in ivy. He smiled weakly at her and said, "I was trying not to startle you . . . sorry."
Through the near-skeletal trees behind him the cold disk of the sun peeked through. Mariel waited.
He nodded his neat head at the Salter home. "What a ruckus last night, huh . . . police and everything . . . goodness, I didn't know what was going on around here."
Forster stopped awkwardly. Mariel watched his face and noticed that he had whiskers today.
"Scared the hens nearly to death, I can tell you that! They don't like a lot of commotion. Of course, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know." He glanced slyly at the Salter residence; then asked, "What did happen last night? I figured if anyone knows what went on it would be you. You're our neighborhood policeman . . . er, woman, that is."
Mariel felt her chest expand with pride. "Come on," he waved her forward, "we can feed the hens while you tell me all about it."
Forster turned and began to walk back up his drive without a backward glance and Mariel followed. When they reached the backyard he took up a pan of feed and handed it to her and she began to scatter it for the hens. Within moments they were busily scratching away at the soil around her feet.
"So what did happen, Mariel?" Forster asked after a period of contented quiet.
Mariel felt herself beginning to smile and tried to suppress it. "Mr. Salter came in my room," she managed by way of explanation, while gauging her chances of seizing one of the glossy black hens.
"He did?" Forster gasped. "Why on earth would he do that?"
Mariel's small lips twisted uncomfortably. "Don't know," she said at last.
"Hmmm," Forster hummed, then added, "Maybe he was trying to steal something . . . what do you think?"
Mariel shrugged and said nothing. The pale sun, sinking ever lower, cast lengthening shadows across the wooded backyard.
Forster leaned toward Mariel and asked in a confidential tone, "You haven't told anybody about that necklace, have you?"
Mariel's small, pale eyes flashed up and back down again; then she shook her head, causing her curls to bounce in agreement.
"Good," Forster assured her. "That's very good . . . not even your mom, though?"
Again she shook her head.
"How about some hot cocoa, what do you say? It's getting chilly out here and the hens will be all right for a while." Again he turned and walked away from Mariel without looking back. At the top of the steps he held the door open for her and patted her on the shoulder reassuringly as she passed within. Mariel felt his fingers run over the necklace beneath her pullover as the slightest pressure—a fly walking across her neck.
He crossed to the stove where a kettle was already pumping steam into the fussy, overheated room. "Lots of sugar?" he inquired brightly.
Mariel nodded enthusiastically even as small beads of sweat formed along her hairline—the heat was a palpable force. There was also a peculiar, not altogether pleasant smell in the house.
"Sit . . . sit." He waved at the round table that was placed within the arch of the bow window. Between the gingham curtains Mariel could see the backyard with its chicken coop and the darkening woods beyond. Ripper flashed through her memory and then was gone.
"It's for the birds," Forster called to her as he spooned cocoa mix into a mug and poured the hot water. "They can't take the cold, you know . . . the songbirds. Most of them are from South America." He swept an arm toward the ceiling of the room and Mariel saw them for the first time: dozen
s of cages mounted at various levels within the kitchen and continuing on into the rest of the house. Forster whipped off the parka he had been wearing and slung it onto a nearby chair. He wore a T-shirt beneath as mute testament to the hothouse atmosphere of his home.
"They're always quiet when a stranger comes in . . . but they come around when they get used to you."
As if on cue, first one, then another began to sing and the house soon filled with their tropical chorus. Mariel thought she had never heard anything so beautiful and rose as if on strings. She gripped the cage nearest her and peered in at the tiny, vibrant creature. The colors of its plumage, brilliant blues and reds, shimmered with the rise and fall of its delicate breast. Forster was still busy making the hot chocolate, taking far more time at it than her mother ever had, and Mariel lifted the little latch to its cage to reach in and . . .
"Don't!" Forster screamed, spilling some of the cocoa from the mug he had in his hand. "Don't touch them, Mariel!" The birds, all of them, went instantly silent.
Mariel started and drew her hand back but not out. It was not her nature to surrender the initiative without good cause. The tiny bird regarded her sticky, chubby fingers without alarm.
"They're very delicate," he added, while looking for an uncluttered surface to set the mug down on, then added under his breath, "Not that you would know anything about that, you little Neanderthal."
Mariel didn't know anything about that, nor did she know the meaning of the strange word he had used, but she did know when she was disapproved of; this was something of which she was keenly aware. But of far more importance, she recognized Sailor's handiwork from the night before.
Forster caught her gaze and looked down at the long, festering scratches that ran down his arms, then back up at Mariel. "I despise cats," he hissed very much like one. His pupils shrank to tiny dots as his neck tendons distended. "I just wanted the necklace, Mariel . . . that's all. I have my reasons, as I'm sure you know."
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Page 5
